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Four New Poems




One square yard of daisies lives

beside my cottage door.

Like the tides

dependent on the moon,

they open to the sun

and close each shady afternoon.

One late snow

hid them, and I feared

for them, but no, the sun

came up on time,

and up they came as well,

springing out--



I could be a daisy, too--

yearning for the sunny times,

dreaming in the dark

of light.






I wish I could remember

the first time that we touched.

There should have been sparks

or thunder at the least.

I saw you, heard you, breathed your scent,

and even tasted you,

but love began with touch.

By now our touches have been infinite,

and only once were they unkind.

We were in the kitchen when

words spewed.

I slung a wet wash rag

which foud its mark

on your blue shirt.

You pushed me

and I fell

and as I struggled up,

I wailed, "Are you all right?"

The tabletop was beige.

My feet were bare.

I'd fried pork chops in a cast iron skillet.

But I just cannot recall

what it was

that touched us off.




Maybe a Muse


Sometimes at night,

not often--

but too often--

a knocking wakes me,

five sharp raps:

bang bang bang bang bang.

I lie

holding my breath,

waiting for something else,

or was it a vivid dream?

In the ensuing quiet, while sleep

teases out of reach,

I wonder what the knocking means.


No, that would be just once.

A past/present/future ghost

who wants to show me where I'm going wrong?

No, I can count my faults by day myself.

Death's boney knuckles on my door?

No, he surely wouldn't knock.

He'd smash his way inside

and shoulder up beside my bed

and drag me kicking

off into the cold.

Last night--

last night--

what woke me

clear and false

was not a five-beat banging,

but a double-toned doorbell.

Ahh well, at least,

so far,

no ghastly raven perches

on the headboard of my bed.






We were/are one

We became, grew, grafted

into one

Divided, we are one

Pried apart, one

Our two scars resonate

across the space

that does not part us

Still one in two

you/me  me/you